


the definition of the word "nice"

by jaimelannister



Category: Glee
Genre: Broadway, Future Fic, M/M, New York City
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-17
Updated: 2012-11-17
Packaged: 2017-11-18 20:44:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/565097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaimelannister/pseuds/jaimelannister
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the last thing Jesse expects, to accidentally pick someone up because he just so happened to understudy the lead role of his show the night the other man came to see it.  But that makes it sound sleazy, and there's nothing sleazy about the weird and slightly backwards whatever-this-is he has with Blaine.  Actually, he's pretty certain that this one's the real deal... whatever that means.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the definition of the word "nice"

It had started out, like many things do in life, as nothing special.

The man had been a face in the crowd, swimming amidst the sea of fans all clamoring for attention from Mr. Bigshot.  (Who wasn’t him, before anyone asked.)  Mr. Bigshot was the lead of the show, and while Jesse loved him like a brother, he did have to admit that the constant attention and the fawning of all the fans got really annoying after three solid months of it.  Mr. Bigshot?  Well, he ate it all up, of course.  And then there were the rest of them, the supporting cast members, the guys who could have walked out of that stage door in full costume and nobody would have batted an eyelash.

Nobody except for him.

Jesse was Mr. Bigshot’s understudy, and he hadn’t missed how at least half of the audience had gotten up to leave during the first song, once they realized that yes, he was the understudy, and that little slip of paper in their playbills wasn’t a joke.  The half that had stayed seemed to enjoy themselves, but the lack of roaring laughter and thunderous applause shot quite the blow to Jesse’s ego.

The empty stage door was pretty depressing, too.  One or two people had stuck around, but they seemed distracted as he signed for them, convinced that maybe if they waited around long enough, Mr. Bigshot would pop out from behind the building, never mind that he was sick in bed with a fever on the other side of town.

So it came as a surprise when a few weeks later, as he was leaving the theatre, eyes trained on the ground after a quick glance at the crowd, that someone called after him.

He’d just been a face, then.  A nameless face that had stopped swimming and had surfaced, seemingly not noticing when Mr. Bigshot came out and the entire crowd surged forward, jostling this man as he attempted to extricate himself from their ranks. Jesse waited off to the side, all the way at the end of the long line of barriers, watching as the man approached.

“Hi,” the man said, his grin brilliant and shining despite the dingy lighting they had out here.

“Hi,” Jesse echoed.  He’d forgotten how this worked.  It had been way too long since he’d been in a show where people actually cared and asked him for his autograph.  But this man seemed to remember how it was supposed to go, because he held out his playbill tentatively, asking, “Will you sign this for me?” 

“Of course,” Jesse smiled, though it felt mechanical.

“Sorry,” the man apologized as Jesse began scrawling out his name.  (Even his signature had gotten sloppy, he was so out of practice.)  ”I, um, didn’t mean to make you stay.  You’re probably in a-“ 

“You’re the first person who’s asked me to sign a playbill since this show started previews,” Jesse cut him off, handing it back.  ”You have nothing to apologize for.”

The man’s face blanched, but Jesse could see color rising in his cheeks in the moments that followed.  He knew what the man was wrestling with.  He wanted to show his disbelief, show just how surprised he was at this new information, but knew it wasn’t a topic performers liked to speak about.  After all, who would want to talk about the fact that they were in a show where the audiences only came for one reason?

“I, uh, I saw the show when you were playing the lead,” the man confessed instead.  ”I didn’t know this,” he waved back at the general uproar that is the stage door, “was a… a thing, though.”  He smiled, ducking his head slightly, opening his playbill to reveal the understudy notice.  ”I didn’t even come see the show again.  I just… showed up after.”

Jesse stared at him.  The man began to fidget, clearly uncomfortable and worried he’d said the wrong thing, and Jesse noticed his cheek hollowing slightly, a clear indication that he started biting at the inside of it. 

“You’re saying that you saw the show when I was in it,” the man nodded as Jesse spoke, “and didn’t care that I was the understudy, and then not only that, but you came back today for the sole purpose of getting my autograph, never mind that he’s,” Jesse jerked his thumb back over at Mr. Bigshot, “the famous one?”

“Um… yeah?”

“You just made my night.”  Jesse held out a hand.  ”Jesse St. James.  Nice to meet you.”

“Blaine Anderson,” the man beamed up at him again as he reached out to shake Jesse’s hand.  ”I think you’re wonderful.”

Jesse squeezed his hand, turning to walk down the street away from the stage door, turning Blaine and switching one hand for the other so he was holding the man’s hand properly as he kept going.  Blaine didn’t protest or ask what he was doing; he just followed along.

They had ended up at a bar further uptown, both sipping their drinks slowly and speaking together in voices too soft for the noisy bar.  But they still sat there, occasionally joining hands, one of Jesse’s fingers permanently drawing pictures of nothing on Blaine’s thigh.

“Tell me again,” Jesse requested, and Blaine didn’t look annoyed but rather like he was still hovering somewhere in disbelief as he explained once more.

“You care about it,” he said, and the words mixed with the alcohol and made a warm pool in Jesse’s stomach.  ”I couldn’t take my eyes off you the whole time.  It was just so evident that you cared, that you love it, that it’s your whole world.”  And just like every time before, Blaine actually giggled before admitting, again, “I fell a little bit in love with you and your passion.”

“Careful,” Jesse’s voice was starting to sound a bit gravelly, “you’ll pump my head full of hot air with talk like that.”

And Blaine just laughed, and Jessed laughed too, neither one of them caring that they’d had this conversation about ten times over.

They ended up back in Jesse’s apartment, the alcohol making Blaine more giggly than usual and Jesse more affectionate, but it didn’t feel forced when they kissed.  Jesse had a brief moment of worry, wondering vaguely if he was taking advantage of the situation, if he was about to turn into one of _those performers_ who took their fans home for a quickie then never spoke to them again, but that was when Blaine turned his head slightly, finding a better angle and trying to lick his way into Jesse’s mouth, and he stopped having a morality crisis right then and there.

It wasn’t as if he cared what people thought of him, anyway.  Nobody else was here; this was about him and Blaine, and while he might not know exactly what he was after right now, they could muddle through that together when their bodies decided to behave.

(Except that was stupid, because Jesse quite liked how their bodies were behaving right now, how Blaine at first moved forward, one of his legs hooking around Jesse’s and trying to press himself onto Jesse’s lap, but seemed to think better of it a split second later and was instead tugging him down, the pair of them falling back onto the couch, Blaine’s knee raising up and angling _perfectly_ between Jesse’s legs when he yanked at that curly hair.)

Their movements were comfortably slow, neither one of them appearing rushed or like they wanted to get off and be done with it.  The kissing was lazy and wet, their hips rocking and pushing together just enough to silently confirm what they both wanted.  It was nice.

Really nice.

Nicer came later, after clothes were discarded and Jesse was leaving imprints of his mouth all over Blaine’s neck and chest, until the other pulled him back up to kiss him again, turned him onto his back, and promptly worked his way down Jesse’s body instead.  And when Blaine reached the inside of his thigh and Jesse started swearing, ‘nice’ wasn’t even a word that crossed his mind.

He didn’t even remember the meaning of the word until hours later, after they’d both shouted increasingly colorful obscenities to Jesse’s ceiling, when he’d woken up to realize that 1. He’d fallen asleep, and 2. Blaine was still here.  Still here and still sleeping, and Jesse couldn’t stop the fond smile that crossed his face, remembering the word ‘nice’ and thinking that this would appropriately fit the definition.

It wasn’t morning.  The sky was still dark, and the Blaine’s curls were tucked neatly underneath Jesse’s chin, one of his arms folded between them, his fingers resting on Jesse’s waist.  Jesse closed his eyes and listened to the other’s breathing, listened to how each exhale sounded the tiniest bit like a whispered “oooh.”  It wasn’t snoring, but his breaths were far from silent.

Jesse didn’t mind.

Breathing was a comfortable noise, especially the slow, elongated inhales and exhales that came with sleep, and the sound soothed and relaxed Jesse’s mind until he drifted off.  Had he been conscious, he would have reveled over how this wasn’t him at all, how usually he hated any noises that he didn’t choose for himself.  It came along with his selective taste in music.  Jesse was a sound snob, and yet he didn’t mind Blaine’s distinctive breathing patterns at all.

When he awoke the second time to a dull gray light outside his window that could only indicate the cloudy morning that would turn into a rainy day, Jesse didn’t open his eyes right away.  Slightly disoriented and momentarily forgetting what had gone on during the night, he at first failed to remember why there was another person in his bed.  (His bed, yes, because he hadn’t been _that_ drunk, thanks.)  But the picture soon presented itself to his sleep-muddled brain, and when he opened his eyes he saw exactly what he’d expected.

Blaine was still here.  The other had rolled to the far end of the bed, curled up and facing Jesse, his face almost completely buried underneath the blankets.  His curls poked out, more unruly than Jesse remembered them, and one of his arms was stretched all the way out towards him, resting on his own arm.

It was a little weird, but the good (nice) kind of weird.  The kind of weird that came when trying something for the first time, because Jesse didn’t do the cutesy waking up together thing.  He was staring, and as he stared Blaine started to stir.  Jesse watched as he turned onto his back, stretching both arms over his head, and then he turned right back to where he had been, reaching out and trying to nuzzle in closer when his hands found Jesse’s body.

The laugh came out of his mouth involuntarily.

Blaine blinked his eyes slowly open.

“You’re staring at me,” he said. 

“Yes, I am,” Jesse told him.

Blaine seemed to digest this, then propped himself up on an elbow, scooting back away from Jesse.  Jesse just looked at him, taking in the unruly hair and the shadow around his chin and cheeks that had to indicate that his facial hair grew quickly, the slight confusion in the way his brow was creased.

“Was I supposed to leave?” Blaine then asked bluntly.

“No,” Jesse liked the way the word felt when answering this question, how it didn’t leap off his tongue but didn’t feel like a burden, either.  Maybe this was contentment.  “It’s just… different,” he then decided.  “Yeah, different.”  The latter comment was more to himself than to Blaine, but it made the other cock his head anyway.

“Then good morning,” Blaine smiled over at him, and even though it was just an echo of that brilliant smile he’d been on the receiving end of last night, Jesse doesn’t detect any hint of it being forced.

Then Blaine yawned.

Ordinarily, Jesse supposed, the other man would just flop back down and go back to sleep, but he covered his mouth with a hand.  Scrubbing his free hand at his eyes, Blaine sat up.  Then he stretched again.  Obviously this was his way of telling Jesse that no, he wouldn’t have to worry about him overstaying his welcome.

“Do you want breakfast?” Jesse then asked, because that’s probably what he’s supposed to say.  He didn’t know how this was supposed to go, and he was certain that plenty of people would berate him for offering Blaine food after… whatever last night had been… but it wasn’t like there were rules.  Besides, Jesse’s life was _not_ a stupid romantic comedy or a sitcom, so no way was he going to go along with what television told him to do.

“Uh, sure,” Blaine smiled again.  Jesse could tell he was surprised, but didn’t bother to try and figure out if that was the good kind of surprised or the bad kind.  Instead, he just got up and headed into the kitchen, hoping he had something edible in his fridge.

The search proved in vain.  The only piece of fruit in there was an apple that looked strangely shriveled, and the various takeout boxes were all labeled in Jesse’s untidy scrawl as being for “dinner.”  Even the milk was bad, he realized when he took it out and sniffed it.  He tossed it into the trash as Blaine came in to join him.

“My fridge has just informed me that I won’t be impressing you with my cooking,” Jesse joked.  “But I can make coffee.” 

“Coffee would be great,” Blaine nodded, but even if he’d said he hated coffee it wouldn’t have mattered.  Jesse would have made it anyway.  He’d just plugged the pot in, about to turn and inform Blaine that by some miracle he _did_ still have cream, when his alarm went off in the other room. 

“Shit.”  Abandoning the coffee, he headed back to his bedroom, picking up his phone and realizing that, oh, right, he had a rehearsal later that morning.  He turned off the alarm as he walked back into the kitchen, a quiet, “fuck,” escaping his mouth as he went.

“Do you have to go?” Blaine asked.  “Because I can–”

“No, it’s fine,” Jesse interrupted.  “I just have a rehearsal later on.”  He smiled.  “But you don’t have to leave.  I just have to go get ready.”  He jerked a thumb back over his shoulder.  “So if you don’t mind waiting for the coffee to brew by yourself…”

“As long as you don’t mind,” Blaine stood up from where he’d sat down.

“I don’t,” Jesse assured him, watching for a moment as Blaine picked up his bag from where he’d tossed it down on the floor the night before.  “There’s cream in the fridge and mugs in that,” he pointed, “cabinet.  The sugar’s in the pot on the counter.”

“Got it,” Blaine nodded, sitting down and pulling a notebook out of his bag.

Jesse left him to it, not bothering to ask what the notebook was for or what he was working on.  He went right back into his bedroom, then through to the bathroom, showering quickly and dressing with his hair still wet, toweling it dry on his way back into the kitchen.

“Hey,” Blaine greeted him, obviously having heard his footsteps.  A mug of coffee sat steaming in front of him, his notebook open to a page filled with something that looked like either a poem or lyrics, from the way the lines were spaced out.  “I was going to pour you a cup,” he gestured to the coffee pot, “but I didn’t know how you take it.”

“Black with two sugars,” Jesse answered, picking up the mug after tossing his towel down onto the couch.

Blaine frowned, his head cocking slightly to one side.

“What?” Jesse asked, pouring his own coffee and sitting down opposite Blaine at his small table.  Their feet bumped together as he pulled his chair in.

“You don’t take your coffee with cream, but it’s the only thing in your fridge that’s still edible,” Blaine commented, taking a sip of his own coffee.  When he set it down, Jesse noticed that he _did_ take his coffee with cream.

“Habit,” Jesse shrugged.  “I used to, but not anymore.”

“Oh?”  Blaine raised both eyebrows.

Jesse explained as he stirred his two sugars into his coffee.

“It comes with the job.  I might not have a large role in this show, but I am the main understudy for the lead, so if there’s a chance I might go on…” he paused, trying to arrange his face so that he didn’t look wistful.  “Well, let’s just say I don’t want coffee cream to take away from my performance.”

“Because it’ll coat your vocal chords,” Blaine finished for him.  Jesse nodded.

“Exactly.”

“So are you going on tonight?”

“I don’t know,” Jesse took a sip of his coffee.  “I mean, Alan’s dedicated as hell, and everyone knows the show’s only open because he’s around, so he doesn’t miss unless he absolutely has to.  But I could hear a tickle last night.  And the night before.  He’s definitely got something, even if it’s not serious.  And who knows what might have happened between last night and today?”

Blaine chuckled.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Jesse backtracked, for hearing that chuckle reminded him just how heartless all this could sound, “I love him like a brother.  His health isn’t worth my two and a half hours in the spotlight.  I’m not _hoping_ he’s going to call out.  I’m just being realistic.”

“I understand,” Blaine nodded.  “It’s the curse of the understudy.  Constantly wanting to show off but always having to wait for misfortune to strike first.”

“You an actor?” Jesse asked, posture straightening slightly.

“No,” Blaine shook his head.  He bit down on his lower lip, then glanced down at his coffee mug, both hands settling around it and speaking to them when he said, “I’m a music teacher.”

He seemed to deflate, having said that.  There was no elaboration, no explanation of what sort of music he taught or what grades, or even if he taught in a school or was a private tutor.  Jesse’s brow creased, wanting an explanation as to why Blaine suddenly was extremely interested in his coffee mug, but he knew he wouldn’t get one, even if he asked.

So he supplied his own answer.

He said, “I know what you’re thinking,” which made Blaine raise his head, expression unreadable.  “You’re assuming that age-old saying is running around in my head right now.  Y’know, the: ‘Those who can: do.  Those who can’t: teach.’ one.  You’re thinking that I’ve put two and two together and saw those lyrics,” Blaine instantly closed the notebook, “and decided you’re a failed songwriter, and now you’re worried how that looks in front of someone performing on Broadway.”

Jesse reached out, laying a hand on Blaine’s forearm. 

“Don’t worry,” he assured the other man.  “Even if that’s true, that doesn’t mean I think any less of you.  Hell, I know how that feels.  I know what it’s like to be uncertain about your future, to think you’ll never get your dream.  Just because I’m an ensemble member of a Broadway show who also understudies the stunt-casted lead doesn’t mean I’m some high-strung diva who doesn’t remember what unemployment feels like.”

“How do you–” Blaine started, but Jesse interrupted.

“I almost became a teacher,” he chuckled.  “But that’s a story for another time.  Where’s your phone?”

Blaine reached down into his bag, pulling it out and handing it over.  Jesse took it and dialed his own number, hearing his generic ringtone going off in the next room.

“There,” he smiled.  “Now you have my number and I have yours.  Call me sometime when you want to commiserate.”

“Commiserate over what?” Blaine asked, but Jesse just shrugged and said, “Whatever you want.  And maybe I’ll tell you my full story if you tell me yours.”

“Maybe,” Blaine bit his lip again.

“And I don’t mean to kick you out, but I do have to leave for my rehearsal in a few,” Jesse explained, taking quicker sips of his coffee now.

“What’s it for?” Blaine asked.

“My show,” Jesse smiled.  “People think rehearsals end once we open, but we still have to practice our stunts and our lifts to make sure we’re on top of things.  And we have understudy rehearsals, which is what I’m doing today.”

“That’s cool,” Blaine smiled back.   “You should sell tickets to that.  People could get a more behind-the-scenes look at how things work.  And who puts in a lot of the work.”

“If only,” Jesse shrugged a shoulder.  The pair exchanged another smile, then both of them finished their respective coffees.  Jesse went back into his bedroom to pack his bag, then joined Blaine back in the kitchen as he poured the rest of the coffee in a thermos.

“Will you call me if you’re on for the lead tonight?” Blaine asked, watching him stir sugar into the thermos.

“Sure,” Jesse grinned.

And maybe this wasn’t covered in the “rules,” either, but Jesse didn’t hesitate to kiss back when Blaine leaned in for one.  He might not know what the hell was going on or what exactly was going to happen from here on out, and he definitely wasn’t the make-him-coffee-and-then-snog-before-work type, but it was… nice.

So was sitting next to him on the subway after they walked to the platform together, because Blaine lived in Brooklyn and Jesse was going into Manhattan, so they both needed to go downtown, anyway.  He liked sitting next to someone he knew, because otherwise it was a stranger invading his personal space, and while he knew it was necessary Jesse still didn’t like it.  But Blaine’s leg was warm where it pressed against his, and somewhere along the way Blaine’s hand found its way onto Jesse’s thigh and Jesse’s arm found its way around Blaine’s shoulders and once again he was struck in the face by the definition of the word ‘nice.’

(He might have purposefully gotten off one stop too late because it was so nice, but Jesse wasn’t about to admit that.)

“Have a good rehearsal,” Blaine told him, voice at the perfect subway volume, as Jesse stood up to leave.

“I will,” Jesse smirked, but that softened into a smile as he left the subway car, and when he looked back in through the slightly cloudy window and saw Blaine smiling after him, that damn word just seemed to blink right in front of his face.

This might be what people talked about when they said you could find every sort of happiness in New York City, how sometimes it would find you and you would stumble blindly after it, never realizing you’d found it until you were already immersed completely.  Jesse still didn’t know what this was, what they were, but there was something tingling in his fingers and a happy knotting in his stomach that didn’t even fade as he walked back up to the street and remembered why he never got off a stop too late. 

(The poster of Rachel Berry’s smug face felt like a punch to his happy-drunk face, and he had to walk through a whole block of advertisements for her show before he finally passed the theatre itself, where her face was plastered again up on the marquee.  Once upon a time seeing this exact sight would have been exactly what he wanted, but now it just made him feel sick.) 

It had the effect of a cold shower, and Jesse went into the rehearsal with such determination that everyone there remarked that someone must have called him Jesse St. Sucks again, because he never worked that hard without someone telling him he was a failure. 

He didn’t bother to tell them the real reason.  There wasn’t really a point, because knowing this industry, someone in his cast was BFFs with Rachel and the last thing he needed was one of his own reporting back to her with tales of his woe at seeing her face everywhere.

Okay, he was being overdramatic, because it wasn’t _that_ bad and he wasn’t a completely heartless bastard who resented the woman’s success, but… suffice it to say he’d liked New York a lot better before she’d come and brought the zombie oaf tumbling after her.  Jesse didn’t care what Rachel did or who she did it with, but now the zombie had a job at what had been Jesse’s favorite Starbucks, so he’d had to vacate the premises and find a new place four blocks out of his way, and was it really that bad to be resentful that he had to walk four more blocks for overpriced coffee?  He didn’t think so.

At least he’d never crossed paths with either one of them since he’d walked in and then out of that Starbucks after spotting the oaf in a green apron.  He wasn’t avoiding them… well, her… but Jesse felt that each one of them would enjoy New York a hell of a lot more if they stayed in their own separate bubbles.

So call it a selfless sacrifice or him running from his problems and hoping the past wouldn’t catch up with him and force him to actually look at how badly he’d fucked up once upon a time…. Call it whatever.  Jesse still took great caution to ensure that none of them ever had to see or hear about each other, and so far that plan had worked out great on his end.

Unlike some of his other plans, mainly the ones that involved him being the one starring on Broadway, but he could muse over his own disappointment later.  Three days later, to be exact, when he had just signed in and walked up to his shared dressing room and his phone rang. 

“Hey,” he said, smiling as he answered.

“Hey,” he could hear a smile in Blaine’s voice, too.  There was a small pause, and then Blaine asked, “Are you busy?”

“Yeah, I’ve actually got ten minutes until half hour call, so–”

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” Blaine interrupted.  “I didn’t realize–”

“No, it’s fine,” Jesse quickly cut him off, too.  “We just changed our schedule and added an evening show tonight, anyway.  It’s no big deal, really.  So what’s up?”

“I was hoping I could take you up on that commiserating offer,” Blaine sounded sheepish, “but since you have a show, I guess–”

“Hey, it’s not like the show runs all night long,” Jesse interrupted again.  “Meet me at the stage door in three hours?”

Blaine chuckled, then, “Yeah, okay.”

“See you then.”

“See you then,” Blaine echoed, and then hung up.

Jesse pretended like he wasn’t actually looking forward to relaying the story of his failure, because he didn’t care what telling as much would get him in return.  Nope.  He was absolutely not at all curious as to what Blaine’s story was or why he was so reluctant to share it.

And there was absolutely no way his heart started beating a little bit faster when he spotted Blaine as he came out of the stage door, noticing how the other was leaning back against the wall further down past the line, how his arms were crossed over his chest and a bright-colored scarf poked out of his jacket.  Jesse hadn’t even pulled on his gloves yet – he’d been hoping, just like every other night, that someone might actually ask for his autograph – and he kept them stashed in his jacket pockets for a few moments more, so he could reach out and touch Blaine’s arm after saying a soft, “Hey,” and feel just how cold the sleeve of his jacket was.

“How long have you been waiting here?” he asked.

“Five minutes?” Blaine shrugged.  Jesse put his hand up on Blaine’s cheek instead, feeling just how cold his skin was and not missing how the other instantly leaned into the touch.

“Liar,” Jesse smirked.  “You’re freezing.”

Blaine laughed a bit too loudly, but it still made Jesse’s smirk soften into a smile.

“So,” he said, moving his hand from Blaine’s cheek to the small of his back, pushing him gently as he started walking, “my fridge has informed me that this time, I _can_ impress you with my cooking prowess, if you’d like me to.”

“Oh really?”  Jesse looked over at Blaine, noticing that both of his eyebrows were now raised.  “And what sort of treat am I in for, if I accept?”

“Well, you can pick between three of my specialties,” Jesse told him, taking his gloves out and finally pulling them on, not bothering to admit that he only knew how to make three things.  “French toast–" 

“Yes,” Blaine said instantly, cutting him off.  “It’s definitely a breakfast kind of night.”

“Then prepare to have your taste buds explode,” Jesse smirked again.  “You’ll be coming back just for the toast and not for my glowing presence after this.”

“That’s quite the claim,” Blaine laughed again.  “And what if I decide that your cooking is shit?”

“Then I guess I’ll know for sure that you like me for me and not because I can cook you breakfast,” Jesse shot right back, not even caring about any possible implications that could be tied to that sort of sentence.  And if Blaine cared about those implications, then it was obviously the good kind of caring, because one of his hands slipped between Jesse’s side and the crook of his elbow, linking their arms.

Maybe it was a little old-fashioned, walking arm-in-arm down the sidewalk with someone – someone who he barely knew, at that – but the old-timey feeling made something pleasant bubble up in Jesse’s stomach.  The word ‘nice’ started floating around his head again.  Part of him wanted to swat it away, but the other part of him had to agree.

And there was another part that was telling him in a sing-songy voice that he _liiiiked_ Blaine, and Jesse knew before they reached the entrance to the subway and had to let go of each other (which made the happy bubbling in his stomach calm down) that he was completely fucked.

Because him and feelings?  Him and actual proper relationships with other human beings?  They never really seemed to work out.  And, sure, he and Blaine had only known each other for three days and neither of them knew what exactly they were or what the other wanted out of this, but Jesse knew what his gut was trying to tell him.  He knew what this could turn into.  He knew what his gut was telling him he wanted, and he knew that he should run from it because it never worked.

But then Blaine smiled at him after they’d both swiped their metro cards, and Jesse was smiling back before he even felt the muscles in his face move, and he knew that running away was _not_ going to happen.

(…and not just because Blaine had linked their arms again.)

Nope, instead he was going to take Blaine back to his place and make him the best French toast anyone in New York City could make and find out why, exactly, Blaine needed to commiserate about being a music teacher.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this fic is basically being written as a challenge for myself. I'm trying to write something that actually follows the show and the basics of what happened with the characters way back when, because most of my stuff takes a dump on show!canon because as far as I'm concerned, it's stupid. I don't even watch the show anymore because it's that stupid. (Which is probably not what you, as a Glee fan, want to read about, but I feel the need to stick a disclaimer up on this so bear with me for a sec, please?) So this is me challenging myself and writing a fic where Jesse and Blaine have their canon backgrounds (or at least the bits that I know about) and overcome said backgrounds and make it out of Ohio and to New York and are (relatively) successful and happy.
> 
> In other words: here goes nothing!


End file.
